— A story on a borrowed idea —

In the midst of a darkness whose veil was pierced only by a faint, pale light, two companions sat, as close together as could be and as far apart as could be. They were close and face to face in body and sense, and distant and at odds in thought, mind, and imagination. One of them — the master of the house — was distinguished by the coarseness of his features, the force of his gaze, and the bristle of his mustache; the other, sitting near him on the bench, was tall and thin, narrow-shouldered and slender-necked — but a neck that counted it a glory to bear the head of a thinker, a philosopher, a famous genius! There he is, casting about his dim, bewildered glances, like other aged men on whose faces are drawn looks of supplication and bargaining... puffing the smoke of his pipe in a thick cloud.

Snow-white are the locks that flow from his head and hang down over his wrinkled, digni-fied face...

Calm is his enigmatic smile... as though nothing leaves its mark on an old man's countenance but an easy conscience and repose in virtue...

Our two companions sat with-out speaking. Through that all-embracing quiet you could hear the faint, feeble bubbling of the burning oil, mingled with the faint, feeble bubbling of the tobacco juice... And there on the wall is the clock, ringed with a halo of pale light, whirring and striking eleven.

Here the voice of the thinking man broke through the silence.

In a soft, deep, musical tone he began:

— This is the hour at which you used to mix the drink for the New Year's toast...

— Yes, this is the hour, the other answered, in a rough voice like the echo of some tremendous crying voice.

— I would never have thought — the guest went on — I would never have thought this day could be so sad without her.

The host agreed with a nod of his head, then repeated:

— She prepared the drink for us forty-four times... yes, forty-four times; and all the while I have lived here in this town, you have come visiting me, easing whatever care and grief and distress I bore...

Here the philosopher's voice rose, as if issuing from some deep cavern, and he said, as though waking from a dream:

— Last year, at this very hour, there were three of us gathered here, rejoicing... Yes, I remember it exactly... She sat here... here, on this rickety chair... Then there we are, drinking, and discussing all manner of subjects with great pleasure and delight... And there is the clock striking twelve, and she rises and wishes each of us a new year full of gladness and joy... then slips away to her bed... And there she is, two months after that day... there she is, borne upon men's shoulders, slipping away upon them to her eternal bed...

The husband answered him with a burning sigh...

— She was a good, devoted woman. She was among the best of women in usefulness, in sense, in thought, in feeling, and in heart... She cared for me greatly: whenever I woke and made ready to go to work at five in the morning, I would always find her above my head, looking at me with looks all gratitude, all love

and honesty and majesty, in her hand the cup of coffee, its steam rising and veiling her radiant face... I never dreamed that face would be veiled from me by the smoke of death so quickly! No... no, I never dreamed it! I loved her greatly, but I hated in her that love of hers for debating questions of philosophy with you, that is...

— "You could not understand them"... words the guest whis-pered, as though sunk in a deep dream. He whispered as though from some far-off, hollow, dismal cavern.

After a silence that did not last long, the scholar began, with some confusion and hesitation:

— Listen, my friend... there is something I want to say to you... something that has gnawed at me a long while... something I cannot possibly carry with me to the grave...

The host cried, puffing the smoke of his pipe and rocking his chair without the least concern:

— Begin, then... what are you waiting for!

— One day... something hap-pened... between me and... and your wife...

— Kindly leave off your usual joking, especially in matters such as these!...

— I am reciting into your hearing a tremendous, fearful truth, my friend... I have kept it hidden more than forty years, and now, at this hour, I must fold up this page of my life within your hearing...

The host cried out firmly: "Do you mean that my wife betrayed me?!"

— Shame on you to say it — the philosopher answered, his per-petual, faint smile never leaving his lips. — She was a model of purity, chastity, and virtue. She was as spotless as an angel... You and I are the two criminals...

Listen to me: forty-three years